Never Trust the Obvious
by OneDarkandStormyNight
Summary: Drabbles/ficlets inspired by Young Sherlock Holmes. I know...but I just couldn't resist. Title may change if I find a better one. Drabble 2: Never Alone, Summary: What about you, Holmes? What do you want to be when you grow up? / I never want to be alone
1. Open

_Face it. We all knew this was coming eventually...  
**Mam'zelleCombeferre** and I were discussing _Young Sherlock Holmes_ a while ago, and after our little talk I had the urge to watch the movie. And when I have an urge to watch a movie, you can bet there's probably going to be a fic born about it. So...here it is. I'm not sure how many people have seen this movie, but it's pretty good in my opinion.  
Enjoy!_

**Open**

When Giles Lestrade had become a sergeant of the Scotland Yard, had had certainly _not_ expected that along with his position he would acquire a certain slim, relentless schoolboy called Holmes who would come bursting into his office at all hours to study unsolved files, examine murder reports, and demand that he take an entire fleet of men to Covington Lane _"before Mrs. Bennet is kidnapped by the blackmailers of her former smuggler husband!"_ Having so eager a lad question him endlessly about his vocation had been flattering — that is, until Holmes had ceased with the curious inquiries and begun with the disrespectful comments insinuating that he had not enough intelligence to be promoted to inspector.

After that, Lestrade had done all he could to keep the irritating busybody away, even going so far as to threaten to have him thrown physical from the Yard grounds. Still, every seven days, exactly the same moment his clock struck noon, the young Mr. Holmes would be there again to interrogate him about his latest case and raise his busy brows as he offered his own egotistical proposals.

Then came the Ehtar case. He had been promoted to inspector for uncovering the truth behind Rathe and his young sister, had his name splattered across every newspaper in London and beyond, and even been awarded a medal from the Queen of England herself for bringing to an end one of the most ruthless occults in England's history — the Ramitap.

In light of all this, he found it both tremendously annoying and strangely unnerving that not even the new, shiny plaque hanging on his wall was enough to raise his low spirits when, a week later, the clock struck noon and his office door never opened.

* * *

_Updates will probably be irregular, depending on how much response I get. Thanks for reading!_


	2. Never Alone

_Well, I don't know about any of you, but I picked up on a little line somewhere in the middle of the movie that just begged to be expanded upon. Literally *begged*. It turned into more of a ficlet/one-shot than a drabble, but I hope you enjoy it despite its length.  
Oh, and I do realize the context of the line in the movie, but I think you all know that I don't write slash, so you get my meaning._

**Never Alone**

He remembered well that chilly evening when the large dining hall was occupied by two hundred boys of all ages slurping their hot soup and chattering noisily.

He did not remember it for what had occurred in class time earlier that day; on the contrary, according to his memory it passed just as every other day of the school year. Nor did he remember it for the conversation he and the five others at his table shared; he could not have told you a word of it now. There was only one part of that supper that he could remember as clearly as daybreak.

There had been a new lad — a boy called Watson, who was slightly awkward in himself, but there must have been something special about him, for he had somehow managed to befriend the most solitary boy on school grounds within the first day he arrived. Though he would never have admitted it to a soul, it made him somewhat envious; after all, the lad who he had befriended happened to be the same who loathed him from the first day they met. He remembered quite well that they were discussing their futures, and though he could not recall a single one of the others' career objectives, he could almost hear the young Watson hesitantly speaking up now.

"_I want to be a doctor."_

They had shunned him, thinking the interjection meaningless and silly in their conversation. He had purposefully directed the question to the presently silent boy at the end of the table, who, he noted with disdain, had taken his seat just across from Watson, apparently without so much as realizing it. Sherlock Holmes took a long moment to answer, but at last responded with an enigma typical to his reserved nature.

"_I never want to be alone."_

The others at the table, himself included, had stolen mocking glances and snickered at this rather senseless answer to such a simple question. Perhaps he was attempting to sound clever, or prophetic, or something else meant to impress with his intellect (it seemed he was always doing just that, in any case). They had pointedly ignored him then, and it was all but forgotten five minutes later.

The memory from all those years ago struck an older Arthur Dudley unexpectedly as he sat at the breakfast table one morning, reading a copy of the Strand handed to him by his wife. The article was a few pages of fiction writing, telling the factual story of a man named Holmes whose help had been requested by an Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard in the solving of a mysterious disappearance. This would not have caught his attention, had it not been for the author; it was written — of all names! — by a _doctor_ called Watson who had returned several years previous from the Afghan War. These two colleagues who helped the Yard in the case were, according to the article, flat mates in London and had been friends for some many years.

As he read on, a fond smile spread across his face at the memories that flooded his mind of younger, more foolish days of adolescence, with its pointless conflicts and naivety. He stopped for a moment to sip his tea, then laughed aloud as he recalled the morning he awoke in the dormitory with white skin and hair, deserving product of revenge for his own cruel trick played out of contempt. When he had read every word of the tale with interest, he tore out the pages and placed them in a drawer in his desk with an oddly affectionate smile.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had grown up to have exactly what each of them wanted, after all.

* * *

(A/N: Or, it could be shortened to just three simple sentences; gets the point across either way, I think.)

"_Holmes, what about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?"_

"_I never want to be alone."_

And he never was.


End file.
